


Get Ready for a Role Reversal

by Izhilzha



Series: In Fire, Some Say In Ice [4]
Category: Invisible Man
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-15
Updated: 2008-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izhilzha/pseuds/Izhilzha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the "end of the world" might look like to Bobby Hobbes. Part 4 of a series of 5 linked ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Ready for a Role Reversal

You'd think five years of bein' this punk's partner--of havin' access to his singular advantage in the stealth department--might make a guy sloppy. Might lessen his own hard-earned skills.

Not Bobby Hobbes. If anything, I've had to get better at sneaking, at moving without disturbin' a hair. Just to keep up with the kid.

And it's paid off. He doesn't twitch a muscle as I approach the hospital bed and stand over him.

'Course, the meds could have something to do with that, too.

He's just lyin' there. Head looks pretty damn small without all that hair.

"Fawkes," I say. Not even all that loud. Just his name, just enough force to make sure he'll hear it. But he jumps like someone stuck a taser in him, eyes wide as saucers as he rolls over to face me. Takes me a second to figure out what's different about that, and I already know what went down. I grin at him. "First time I spooked you and didn't see silver, partner. Congrats."

He squints at me, forehead all wrinkled up like I'm talking to him in Taiwanese. "What d'you. . . ?" Then his eyebrows shoot right up. He puts a hand to his head, and his mouth drops open when his palm slides along bare scalp. He stops when his fingers nudge the edge of the bandage plastered across the back of his skull. Then he closes his eyes and lies real still.

I can tell what he's trying to do. Makes my grin a little bigger. "C'mon, Fawkes, it's not that hard to figure out."

He opens his eyes, brings one hand in front of his face, flexes it and turns it. It stays right where you'd expect it to, on anyone but an invisible man. Fawkes looks past his fingers at me. "You sure they didn't just shoot me full of that adrenaline blocker stuff?"

I shake my head. "I was watching 'em the whole time. It's out. And you're still here."

"Well. . . ." His mouth works, like he's lookin' for the right words. "Crap. What now?"

Straight into the hard part. Alright. Call the past five years training for this moment.

I drop my voice to a whisper. I've already got my back to the camera, not that it'll matter in a minute or so. "Think ya can walk?"

"What?" The tone of voice says he heard me, he just doesn't believe I'd ask that a few hours after he's had brain surgery.

"Can you walk?"

His eyes narrow. "Where to?"

"Someplace you won't be looked for."

"What's the alternative?" Fawkes raises an eyebrow and crooks a grin. "The Agency of Sequestered Seclusion?"

"Not even close, my friend. You got outta there too easily." I tap his forehead with one finger. "Still a lotta stuff in your head they need to keep under wraps. This time, it'll probably be way in the middle of nowhere and underground to boot."

Fawkes snorts. "They got the damn gland back. What else do they want?" I don't bother answering. A minute later he sighs. "Yeah, I can walk. What, did you turn off the cameras? How long to do we have?"

"Long as it takes," I tell him. I take a step back from the bed, and the lights go out. Even the emergency ones. I grab Fawkes' elbow and have him sitting up before he can blink. "You good?"

"Uh. Gimme a sec." He swallows hard, and I cross my fingers that he's not about to hurl all over my fresh-pressed jacket. "Yep, good."

It takes a long dizzy moment for him to get his balance, one arm slung across my shoulders, feet sorted out, headed in the right direction. "How d'you know where you're going?" Fawkes demands as we start moving step by quiet step through the medical unit. It hasn't taken him more than a few seconds to realize we weren't bumping into crap on the way. It takes the same few seconds for Fawkes' natural sneakiness to reassert itself; even dizzy and drugged, he moves like a cat.

"Observation and memory, my friend. Not all of us rely on Quicksilver night vision to navigate." I don't tell him how much of this room's construction was overseen by Claire, that the alarms won't sound, nor that there's a computer virus playing headgames with the local mainframe. "Don't worry, Eberts killed the cameras."

We've made it to the door when Fawkes jerks to a stop. He's breathing hard; if this could've waited, I would have never made him get up out of that bed. I lock his arm more solidly across my shoulders, taking as much weight as he'll give me. "I gotcha, partner."

"We're really doing this? We're leaving?" he asks. He sounds like a little kid. And he's deliberately hanging back.

I know what that's like. I've had weeks to plan this out, to come to grips with what my life would look like on the run. And I still feel the tug. Years of service will do that to you--for every mission gone wrong, every bastard for a boss, there's the moments that make you glad you were there, and people like Alex and Claire and even Eberts, who make you wish you didn't have to move on.

"Yeah. You're free, enjoy it," I tell Fawkes. The longer version of this plan can wait. Till his head doesn't feel cracked open, till he's had some time to think. But for now. . . . "You're the expert here, pal. I'm a law-abiding citizen of these fine United States. I expect some solid advice on bein' a criminal. You think you can pull that off?"

Fawkes laughs, then shifts his weight and shuts up to use his breath for walking.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of thematically linked fics, without many actual spoilers, all of them future-fics or AU in some way. Many thanks to V. Laike for her beta work, especially on the Supernatural installment.


End file.
